24. NIKOLAI #3
Henri shoved the dead body into the back like he was hauling a sack of meat. I heaved the live one—barely conscious—into the cargo area beside his buddy. I shoved him back enough to shut the overhead door, making his legs bend awkwardly and eliciting a groan from him.
“Julian, you’re on cleanup duty. My guys will be here shortly. Watch your back,” I ordered, moving to the passenger side.
Lucian struggled to climb into the rear seat. Rory got behind the wheel, and I jumped in beside him as Henri got in behind me.
“Drive,” I ordered. “Navy Yard. East warehouse.”
“Got it,” Rory said, peeling out hard.
I pulled out my phone and fired off a message to DarkMatter’s response command.
Code Red. Sacrifice Lockdown. Full perimeter. No one in or out. All eyes on Delgado’s enforcers.
Then I called Luca.
He answered on the second ring.
“What’s up?”
“They got the girl from Cipher,” I said. “Delgado’s men showed up just after we arrived at the theater where she was hiding. They snatched her right in fucking front of me! I dropped one. Have one in custody. Working on cleanup.”
“Cops?”
“None yet, but Lucian says they’ve passed by on patrol. I’ve got Julian staying back to help with the cleanup. I need your people greasing palms fast—NYPD, city sanitation, the usual.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“You know where Delgado lives?” I asked.
He paused. “He moves often, but I’ll find him for you.”
“I’m going to make him regret breathing,” I hissed.
“You still have one of his men alive?”
“Yeah. He’s going to talk.”
“You want me to send someone?”
“No. This part’s personal. I’ll handle him just fine.”
Luca was silent for a beat. “Make it hurt.”
I ended the call. The man groaned in the back. Good, ’cause that was the best he was going to feel ever again.
We rolled into the Brooklyn Navy Yard just as the sun was rising. All was quiet.
Our warehouse was a holdover from the Soviet days—steel-reinforced, soundproofed, off-grid. No immediate neighbors. No questions.
Rory backed the SUV up to the loading dock, and we hauled Delgado’s men out—the deadweight first, then the whimpering bastard who’d tried to play soldier in a war against an enemy he’d woefully underestimated.
The inside of the warehouse smelled like bleach and the rot of death—scrubbed just enough to fool no one. The windows had a layer of grime blocking most of the light from outside.
Plastic tarps were already laid out, waiting to be wrapped around bodies before they took their final ocean fishing expedition. Rusted chains swayed from ceiling beams, and a meat hook hung from one of the center supports, positioned above a floor drain.
Henri dragged in a floodlight and snapped it on.
The man screamed as we yanked his tied hands up behind him, dislocating both of his shoulders, and strapped him to the hook. His legs were ruined—bones splintered, muscles torn. He wasn’t going anywhere. But that didn’t mean we’d make him comfortable.
“I want an address. Now,” I said, circling behind him. “Where’s Delgado holding her?”
He whimpered something in Spanish.
Rory stepped forward and squeezed the man’s thigh—right above the shattered patella.
The man howled.
“You’re going to scream either way,” Rory said calmly. “Might as well give us something useful while you still have a tongue.”
“I’ll talk,” the man gasped.
I leaned in close to his face. His breathing was shallow and wet, like he was already halfway to drowning in his own blood. His forehead glistened with sweat, panic bleeding through every pore.
“This is your chance,” I said. “Tell me where they took her.”
But he didn’t speak, just wheezed through his nose, eyes darting between Rory and me.
So be it.
I stood and crossed to the workbench at the back wall. Dust coated the old tools, but the important ones had been cleaned and well-maintained.
I picked up a pair of garden shears with wicked-sharp blades. I tossed them back and forth from one hand to the other, glancing at Rory as I returned to stand in front of the man.
“You know,” I said casually, “I’ve always thought the Italians and the Russians weren’t so different. Both are good with numbers. Both love their mothers.” I snapped the shears closed. “And both know how to cut a man down.”
The bastard whimpered as I approached him.
“One snip at a time,” I said, calm as could be. “It’s not my pain.”
I reached over, grabbed his ear between two of my fingers—and sheared it off in one clean motion.
His scream shook the rafters.
Blood poured down his neck, bright red seeping into the fabric of his shirt like ink.
“Fuck,” Henri muttered behind me, turning away for half a second.
The man thrashed, eyes wide, mouth stretching open as if desperate to scream out for a god that would never hear him. None came.
I flicked the ear away like trash.
“You might bleed out before I even get to the good parts,” I said. “But that’s on you.”
His head lolled forward—the pain overcoming his bravado. “No…no more. Please—don’t.”
“All you have to do is talk,” I said, stepping closer. “Tell me where they took her. What they’re planning to do.”
His voice cracked. “Delgado…took her to his place. Mr. Delgado’s house.”
That tracked. He was keeping her close. Wanted full control.
“And?”
“They’re selling her tonight.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. I had fucking known that was his intention, but I just hadn’t thought it’d happen this fast.
But hearing it come from this bastard’s mouth made it real in a way that amped up my anger.
My rage crystallized.
“Where?” I demanded. “Where does Delgado live?”
He looked up, eyes glassy. “No.”
“Wrong answer.”
I dropped the shears and picked up a different blade—curved, short, meant for skinning animals.
“You’ve had your chance.”
I seized his arm and pressed the blade into the crook of his elbow, then dragged it all the way to his wrist.
Skin peeled. Blood poured.
He screamed so hard he couldn’t breathe, his body jerking like a puppet on wires.
“You’ve got seconds,” I said flatly. “Maybe. Tell me where Delgado is, and someone might stop the bleeding.”
He stared at me, tears streaking down his face. Then he dropped his head again, his breathing ragged and shallow.
“No,” he whispered.
And that was it.
He hung there, slowly swinging, a dark pool of blood spreading beneath his feet, rippling as each drop joined it. Then his head slumped sideways—and stayed there.
Dead.
I stared at him. Silent. Still.
My rage didn’t explode outward.
It sat in my chest like a loaded gun.
“They’re going to wish they killed me first,” I said, single-minded in my resolve now. “Delgado. Every man he has working for him. Every buyer planning to show up at that auction.”
Henri exhaled slowly. “What now?”
“Clean this up,” I said.
I turned to Rory.
“Take me home.”